Charlotte believes a lovers’ quarrel
smells the same
poured over the mint in her mother’s garden.
She feels the end of a sonnet
is like the end of a life.
And yet although she recognizes something familiar
in the eyes
and in the manners
of every one she sees
she knows she passes
and will pass
through the world.
Monstrous praises she heard
slurring out of a half-open window
made her giggle
into her clenched fists.
She recognizes and knows
“It’s just that I don’t understand
Spellbound by the nuance
of a change in the
I wake each morning with the broken
thoughts of another person
lying at the foot of my bed
and I try to arrange them into a coherent whole
before they evaporate
in the newborn light of day. And each day
I fail and am left with only
the smell of basil
faintly fragrant in the air.
A gathering of memories at the water’s edge.
Vividly colorful and living. A terrifying
ambivalence moves them.
A passion for love eternally ending
is spoken of. They are sad
and lost and utterly captive
to the lyrical temperament of their own words.
But though vulnerable
against it I stand enchanted. It’s our preference.
Yet it is just an excuse if
simply for this brief interlude
we can share together
the blackberries that have ripened on the vine.